Welcome to Gaia! ::

Teddy could help but smile. It wasn’t his usual wide grin that he had when something was amusing. This was softer, and he could feel his chest well with pride. He was always proud of his brother, but he knew how difficult it was for Cary sometimes. He knew how hard it was for Cary to look people in the eye when he felt uncertain or suspicious. He knew how much it meant when Cary decided to try.

So Teddy sat still and didn’t interrupt. Well, as still as he could. His leg started swinging again underneath the seat. But he didn’t try to jump in or help, he just let Cary speak -- even if the praise about him being the bird expert made his cheeks flush a bit.

When Cary mentioned the stories, Teddy’s eyes lit up a bit more.

“He does,” he chirped in confirmation, glancing over at Eld. “Sometimes weird ones -- but they’re the good kind of weird! The kind that’s easy to remember.”

He paused for a moment and glanced back over at Cary. “He has a story for almost everything. Even ones that don’t seem like they should have stories.”

There was excitement in his voice, but it was the quiet kind of excitement. Like finding a new trail that hasn’t been explored yet. Or discovering a new book he’d never seen about birds, tucked away in some used bookstore.

When Cary finally looked at him again, Eld held his gaze. Not with the intention of being intimidating or too attentive, but just wanting Cary to know that he was listening. And that he didn’t have to stay if his presence there became too much.

So when Cary thanked him, Eld bowed his head slightly in gratitude.

“You honor me,” he said. “I gave it because I saw it belonged to you. I do not offer what I do not believe in. Not even to those who may not believe in me.”

He said no more about the hawk. He didn’t want Cary feeling cornered about it.

When Cary mentioned stories, Eld’s lips twitched into a bigger smile, amused by the gentle shift in subjects, but not necessarily surprised by it. What little he’d learned about Cary so far… the subject change made sense. Moving the topic from himself was strategic, and Eld was not intimidated by questions. Stories were, after all, a language he knew intimately.

“Teddy is generous in his assessment,” Eld responded kindly, casting a gentle glance at the younger boy. But then he looked back at Cary, his tone returning to something more steady. “But I do tell stories. Sometimes because they are true. Sometimes because they help me understand things I can not explain any other way. Because some things -- grief, wonder -- are too large to hold in plain words.”

He hummed quietly to himself as he considered them both as they sat across from him on the branch in the morning heat, cooled by the shade of the trees.

“If you would like a story, I would offer one. Nothing too long. Something feathered, perhaps. Since it seems our morning has taken wing.”

Teddy lit up when Cary said yes. Not in a big way, just a quiet grin tugging at his lips as he sat up a little straighter. He didn’t want to ruin the moment by wiggling. He was trying to be better about that! About not talking too fast or bouncing too much when he felt things were important. It wasn’t often that he talked a lot, but when he did, it was usually to Cary, who would probably appreciate the silence more.

So he sat with his hands in his lap. His legs were still swinging a bit, but he hooked them at the ankles so he wouldn’t be doing it too much. Even though the heat clung to his back and made his shirt a little itchy, he barely noticed. Because Cary had said yes.

He snuck a quick glance at his brother, who still looked like he was trying not to show how miserable he was, and leaned just slightly against his side. Not to distract him or, worse, make him hotter than he already was. Just to be there with him. Because he felt nowhere safer than with Cary.

He looked at Eld expectantly, with wide eyes and a little grin.

“Feathered, right? Like something with wings?”

He let the boys get settled. Mostly Teddy. A small smile twitched at the corner of his lips as he watched them. It was hard not to see how they both adored the other.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft. Carefully constructing the story he promised.

“There was once a boy who found a bird in a box,” he began. “Not a cage. A box. Made of rusted metal and wood. It was patched over so many times that it barely held its shape. The kind of thing most would have thrown away.”

He glanced briefly at Cary. Not harshly, just with understanding and acknowledgement.

“But inside, there was movement. Small. Uncertain. And when the boy pried the lid open, he found a bird with silver feathers and one bent wing. It was dirty. Thin. And too tired to fly,” he continued. His hands moved slightly in his lap. Not a gesture, exactly… more like he was shaping the air into pieces of the story as he spoke.

“The boy didn’t know what kind of bird it was. There were no pictures of it in books. He didn’t even know if it was meant for the sky. But still, he took it with him. Not because he knew how to fix it. Not because he wanted thanks or praise for a good deed. But because it didn’t have anyone else. He kept it close. Hid it in his coat. Learned when it needed food. Figured out when it needed quiet. Learned to sit with it through long, dark, heavy days. Even when it wouldn’t sing.”

He paused then, his eyes drifting upwards, towards the trees where a breeze was finally starting to move some of the heat that was resting too heavily where they were seated.

“Years passed. The bird’s wing never fully healed. It could not fly very far. It could not soar like the others. But it remained close to the boy. And it sang. Not loud, not often, but enough. Enough to remind the boy that he wasn’t alone, either. And one day, the boy, who was now a young man, looked down at his shoulders and realized… he had feathers of his own.”

He paused, watching the both of them, letting the words ease into thought.

“The box was never meant to hold a bird,” he finished quietly. “But sometimes… we don’t realize what we are carrying until we decide not to throw it away.”

He didn’t ask if they understood, nor did he explain the metaphor. At least not yet. Some things were for hearing long before understanding.

Teddy didn’t notice the fanning at first. He was listening so hard. He was leaning forward just slightly, eyes wide, breath held like the story might suddenly stop if he breathed too loud. But after the bird had sung, and the feathers had grown, and Eld fell silent, Teddy finally blinked and sat back a little.

That was when he noticed the air. Not the breeze -- Cary’s breeze. It was slow and steady, fanning cooled air towards his face.

Teddy glanced up at his brother, his expression soft. He didn’t say thank you -- there were a lot of things they said to each other without saying it out loud, after all -- but he leaned a little more into Cary’s side, still careful not to make him overheat or crowd him too much. He let his shoulder rest there for a moment. Like a bird finding a safe perch.

He looked toward Eld after that, tilting his head thoughtfully at him.

“I liked it,” he said softly. “It was a little sad, but I think the boy was really brave. So was the bird.”

He didn’t fully understand why Cary’s jaw looked tight, but he didn’t want to embarrass him by asking. So instead, he reached one hand over to gently pat Cary’s knee, as if to give him a little reminder that he was there with him.

Eld accepted Cary’s words with a quiet nod, and didn’t prod for more. “Thank you,” he replied simply, his voice accompanied only by gentle appreciation for Cary’s effort. He understood tension when he saw it. Not the kind that was waiting to explode, but the kind that built over years of needing to stay quiet and still and good.

The scars around his wrists had long since faded, and he didn't think it was fair to compare one person’s prison -- their trauma -- over another. He would not press further.

Instead, he glanced over to Teddy with a gentle smile. “I think so too. Bravery often comes without recognition. But it lives in how we choose to care for something, even if we do not know if it will ever fly.”

He paused for a moment, and then added, almost offhandedly, “Sometimes, the bird is not the only one learning how to sing.”

He didn’t explain it, but he slowly stood and brushed the grass from his trousers.

“The sun is climbing. You may want to move soon if you wish to stay out of its reach.”

He smiled faintly, not leaving yet, but giving them some more space. “I am glad we crossed paths today.”

It was at that moment that in the branches of a tree just behind Eld, a bright red bird flew down to perch.

Teddy had been looking at Cary. Watching him closely, like the way you watch someone when you love them and you’re not sure how they’re feeling, but you want to make sure they know you’re there.

So when Cary squeezed his hand, Teddy’s heart fluttered. Not because it startled him, but in that surprised and happy and trying not to squirm way that only Cary could cause.

When he followed his brother’s gaze, his breath caught in his throat.

“Oh!” he whispered, like anything louder might spook it into flying away. His hand tightened slightly around Cary’s. “Yeah… yeah, I think it is. It’s so red.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink at first. He just watched in awe. “He really did show up,” he said under his breath. Like a secret. And then, quieter still, for Cary alone, he added, “I think he was waiting for you to see him too.”

Eld saw the cardinal at the same time they did.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He simply turned slightly toward the tree, as if acknowledging an old friend.

When Cary thanked him, Eld offered a nod that was more like a bow. Not overly dramatic. Just enough to show he understood how hard Cary had been trying. It had been different, and maybe that was enough.

“I will see you again,” he said quietly. A promise, but no pressure. And then he stepped back onto the path that led through the trees.

In the branches, the cardinal stayed a little longer.

Fin!